


Sherlock Invents His Own Lube

by wendymarlowe



Series: John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Sherlock has no concept of privacy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3566555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock replaces John's usual bottle of lube with a set of homemade variants and a blank data table.  For science.  He has to monitor the experiment himself, of course.</p><p>(Part of my "John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times" series of shorts, all revolving around the same basic theme of "John and Sherlock get sexy for the first time and also discover some kinky stuff about each other.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The woman in the cereal aisle at Tesco’s that afternoon had been tall, curved in just the right places, and dressed to kill. Way too dressed-up to be shopping for oatmeal, anyway. John had only seen her for a moment, just long enough for short smiles and brief eye contact, but then she actually gave him a once-over as he passed her and even five hours later he couldn’t get the picture out of his head. Women didn’t ogle him all that much nowadays - the downside of looking ordinary, probably. Great that nobody expected you to be a serial killer, but terrible for picking up hot women at the supermarket.

Hot women with absolutely _gorgeous_ legs. John rolled over under his blanket and groaned. No sound from downstairs - Sherlock was probably still sulking in his room, then, as he had been all evening. Not really “sulking” - “lurking?” Griping about John’s totally unreasonable request that he get his bloody lab equipment off the bloody kitchen table every once in a bloody while?

 _Whatever._ John slipped a hand inside his boxers and palmed his half-hard cock. Not that he’d let Sherlock’s presence in the common areas of the flat deter him if he _really_ needed a wank, but usually it was best to be prepared. Silent and under the covers (or in the shower) meant plausible deniability. John hadn’t actually been on a date for a month and a half, damn it, and sex was (should be) a perfectly natural part of a person’s life. Any person except Sherlock Holmes, apparently.

John let his mind drift back to the Tesco’s woman, lingering over the memory of her hips and thighs and calves. Shortish skirt and heels - not slutty, just sexy. Straddling the line of “professional” and “evening wear.” Heading straight from work for a night out, then? Not anywhere John was likely to go - he was definitely too old to troll clubs and bars for women a decade his junior - but then even just the fantasy was helpful. Helping. John tightened his grip and rubbed a bit more forcefully. _Definitely helping._

Still no sound from Sherlock. This was for sure going to happen, then. John rolled over on his back to fumble blindly in the nightstand drawer for his lube, but something stopped him short. Wrong bottle - wait, two bottles? He pulled himself up to take a look.

His usual container of lube was gone. In its place were _four_ smaller bottles, helpfully labeled “A” through “D,” in a neat row. And a folded piece of paper which looked suspiciously like a spreadsheet. John had a sinking feeling he knew who was responsible for the swap, but he unfolded the paper anyway.

SAMPLE / EASE OF APPLICATION / APPROPRIATE VISCOSITY / EASE OF CLEANUP  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
A  
B  
C  
D

 _Right._ No doubt Sherlock thought he had a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this, but right now his complete lack of personal boundaries meant John had to either wank dry - which was not appealing - or use some sort of mystery substance which may or may not be appropriate for contact with human skin. The fact that it was actually a difficult decision said a lot about his current state of desperation. If only his bloody flatmate didn’t make it so difficult to meet women-

“Ah, you found them.”

John jumped about a foot in the air and slammed the drawer so fast he nearly caught two of his own fingers. “Sherlock! What the hell are you-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s obvious, don’t you think? I’ve been working on this for weeks but I need more data. Just fill out the chart - a 1-10 scale should do; 1-100 would likely introduce spurious precision which might devalue the results.”

John just stared. “Um. Working on what?”

“Lubricant, obviously,” Sherlock retorted. “The commercially-available brands grow microbes at a significantly faster rate then they claim - the ‘use by’ date is a joke. I had time between cases and I have the lab equipment and this would actually be _useful_. Mind if I stay and watch? Or - oh, do you need a pen?”

 _Watch. As in, watch me wank?_ John cleared his throat. “Sherlock, bit not good. Again.”

Sherlock’s face slid into its default I-don’t-understand-your-obsession-with-personal-boundaries expression. “It’s not like I don’t know you masturbate. Surely you don’t suffer from performance anxiety?”

“Oi, I can get it up just fine when I need to, thankyouverymuch,” John snapped back. “But Sherlock - really? You don’t think it’s maybe a _bit_ unusual to present your flatmate with homemade lube and expect him to put on a show for you? I don’t even know what’s _in_ this stuff - after what happened at Baskerville, I don’t know that I’ll trust you with unknown substances in or around my body ever again.”

“Oh. _That_.” Sherlock sighed theatrically and flounced from the doorway to the bedside, where he opened the drawer again and set the four bottles all in a row on the bedside table with their labels facing John. “Here, pick one. I’ll stand over here so I can’t see which letter you choose.”

John hesitated, but then pointed wordlessly to bottle B.

“Fine.” Sherlock popped off the top and squeezed a small puddle into his hand. “Totally harmless, you see? Not even knowing which one you picked, I can assure you they’re all totally safe unless by some random chance one were allergic to silicon derivatives. And I know you aren’t.”

“You’d touch it even if it weren’t safe,” John pointed out. “I’ve seen you do it before, with that quote-unquote ‘harmless’ acid on the kitchen towels last month. Still not putting anything homemade on my dick, thankyouverymuch.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. And then unzipped his trousers with his clean hand and reached down inside his briefs to slick the lube around. John’s jaw dropped.

“I’ve already got my own data recorded,” Sherlock grumbled. “Although I suppose a single-blind test isn’t the end of the world, for confirmation.” He raised an eyebrow and nodded toward where John’s lap was only partially concealed by his bunched sheets. “Go on, then - we can compare notes.”

“I - you - _the fuck?”_ John knew he probably should have had a much more coherent argument - he usually had no trouble telling Sherlock exactly which behaviors were crossing the line into totally unacceptable - but the linguistic processing centers of his brain appeared to have gone temporarily offline at the sight of Sherlock’s long, slim fingers massaging his own cock underneath the fabric of his pants. The cotton pulled and shifted, drawing tight across a knuckle one moment and outlining a startling clear delineation between shaft and corona the next. Sherlock wasn’t fully hard yet, but he was getting that way rapidly and John couldn’t look away.

“Might have to save the numerical assessments for afterward.” Sherlock’s voice came out a touch breathy, like he was trying very hard to sound normal and wasn’t quite succeeding. “Use - _mmm!_ \- use the same bottle, John. Will help reduce outside variables when I compare the data later.”

John dragged his gaze from the mesmerizing motion of Sherlock’s hand up to his face, but that wasn’t all that much better - Sherlock’s eyes were half-closed as he worked himself with strong, efficient tugs. John licked his lips and didn’t realize it until his tongue was already sticking out of his mouth. Sherlock’s own lips turned up in a half-smirk and he held John’s gaze expectantly.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he finally said. “Here - give me your hand. No, your _left_ hand.” He snatched up the bottle and poured a healthy dollop into John’s palm. “There - use that.”

 _Am I really doing this? Christ, I’m doing this._ John gingerly reached down into his boxers and slicked the lube onto his cock. It was definitely interested in the proceedings, now, even more so than it had been when he was daydreaming about the woman at Tesco’s. Given that the only thing on his mind since Sherlock burst in the door had been _Sherlock,_ that was a somewhat disturbing revelation. Luckily, thinking about _anything_ \- much less having a bit of a sexual identity crisis - seemed to be beyond his brain’s capacity at the moment.

Sherlock’s whole posture changed the moment John actually gave in. He braced himself on the corner of the nightstand with his free hand, propping himself up, and started a very definite rolling movement with his elbow which had his hips twitching forward on the downstroke. He was very pointedly not looking at John, although it didn’t escape John’s notice that Sherlock’s “vacant gaze off into the distance” was in fact directly into the mirror over the dresser. Which probably didn’t show any more of John’s lap than just looking straight down would have, but it was so quintessentially Sherlock to be covert in his observations and John couldn’t suppress a little huff of laughter.

“I don’t know what the hell we’re doing,” he said aloud. “What am I doing, Sherlock?”

“Masturbating,” Sherlock replied, over-enunciating each consonant. “Wanking, jerking off, jacking off, pleasuring yourself, diddling, fist-fucking, having it off, rubbing one out, choking the chicken-”

 _“Fuck,_ stop!” John knew he was probably bright red - and that _never_ happened, even when Sherlock was being a first-class berk - but something about hearing the rapid recital of synonyms in Sherlock’s baritone I’m-rubbing-one-out-too voice was working on his libido in ways he didn’t know his libido could be worked. “Just - don’t, okay?”

“You like my voice, though.” Sherlock didn’t sound angry, just confused. “You haven’t attributed sexual feelings toward it until today, but you regularly stop to listen even when what I’m saying can’t possibly interest you.”

“It’s different when - when you’re wanking, Sherlock. It just is.” John slid his hand down further, a quick pass over his bollocks, then he settled back into the tug-and-twist he knew was usually his best chance at coming quickly.

“You like hearing - _ngh!_ \- hearing when my speech is impeded?” Sherlock straightened his spine a bit, even as he redoubled the intensity of his wrist movement. “That’s - _ah!_ \- not uncommon in partnered sex. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You’re going to ruin your experiment,” John retorted - the only defense he had left, but a good one. “Now your voice is a variable you’ll have to include every time.”

“Every - _oh!_ ” Sherlock sucked in an audible gasp and then froze, panting rapidly. And _fuck,_ John could literally _see_ the outline of Sherlock’s cock twitching as he came. It was so wrong to watch, so Not Good and inappropriate for a straight flatmate to be mesmerized by, but John took in Sherlock’s trembling posture and involuntarily tightened his own hand and then he was coming too, warm spurts of sticky moisture which would certainly necessitate changing his boxers and t-shirt and cleaning up before he could go back to bed. For right now, though, all he could do was to flop back onto his pillow and stare.

“Every time, John,” Sherlock said quietly. He lifted his head and met John’s gaze. “You said every time - that means you’re willing to do this again?”

 _Christ._ Every rational part of John’s brain was saying no - he wasn’t gay, this wasn’t normal, _what kind of straight flatmate wanks off with his male flatmate standing not two feet away?_ In the “yes” column, though, stood that fact that it _had_ been one of the more incredible orgasms John had experienced in quite a while. And - despite his recent dating history - that title had quite a bit of competition.

Still . . . “You’re utterly barking mad, you know that?”

Sherlock grinned, went to run his hand through his hair, and only just stopped himself before he smeared semen and homemade lube through his carefully disheveled locks. “That’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock yanked open the bedside table drawer, pulled out the chart, and extracted a pen from his pocket. All with just his left hand. “Now - tell me. Ease of application? On a 1-10 scale?” He paused and glanced down at the remaining three bottles. “That was sample B, wasn’t it?”


	2. Chapter 2

John had almost exactly twenty-four hours to come to terms with his new . . . _something_ . . . for Sherlock. Sherlock’s voice, in particular. How had he lived with the man for close to a year and never realized before how unbearably _sexual_ that voice was? John had noted from the very first that Sherlock was attractive, in a conventional sense, although he’d always attributed that realization to the fact that Sherlock was a dramatic git who couldn’t stand to not be the center of attention and of _course_ having everyone’s attention focused on Sherlock all the time naturally meant John would notice things about him he’d never notice on someone else. Like the way his hair curled furiously in the rain or the scent of his sweat after a long chase or how he always flexed his bare toes before actually relaxing into the sofa to visit his mind palace.

Sherlock’s voice was in a category all its own, though. John spent the entirety of the next day trying very hard not to acknowledge the sudden rush of heat every time Sherlock spoke. _“Doesn’t talk for days on end” my arse - he won’t bloody shut up today._ Sherlock seemed to be finding excuses to talk at every possible opportunity - a request for tea, pointed comments at the telly, a running observation on the people walking along Baker street below their window. This last was interrupted by a repetitive beeping from Sherlock’s phone.

“Oh - finally!” Sherlock abandoned his monologue mid-rant and whirled on John with a frighteningly gleeful expression. “Upstairs, John - we need to replicate the variables from the first experimental trial as closely as possible.”

“That’s your pick-up line, is it?” John replied dryly. “That work with all the boys?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please,” he retorted. “I’ve just spent forty-five minutes talking about _inanities_ non-stop for your benefit. What more do you need?”

 _Wait - what?_ “I assumed you were just bored.”

“I _was._ But you’ve been obsessing about my voice since last night and it seemed like an expedient way to get you in the right mood to masturbate."

 _Christ._ John could feel the heat stealing up his face. “Not good, Sherlock.”

“Oh, it’s about to get much better.” Sherlock’s lips twisted into a smirk - he _never_ made innuendo, not intentionally, and it was taking all John’s brainpower just to keep up with how bloody odd the last twenty-four hours had been.

They made their way upstairs, Sherlock hovering barely two steps behind John the entire way. John got to the middle of the room and paused.

“So . . . you really want to do this. Again.” John knew Sherlock despised when anyone voiced the obvious, but it was worth making really damn sure before anything more happened. _Not that plenty hadn’t happened already . . ._

Sherlock ignored his comment, as John had suspected he would. “Sit,” he commanded. “Would you say your level of arousal is comparable to last night, or should I talk to you more first?”

“I’m . . .” _Christ, could he_ have _a bigger ego?_ “I’m fine, Sherlock,” John said firmly. “Still a little surprised at myself that I haven’t told you to go to hell yet, but I’m fine.”

“Ah, yes, the expected heterosexual panic. So dull - I expected better of you.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” John gestured vaguely toward his cock, which was sporting the same semi-erection he’d been dealing with all damn day. “You may not realize this, you arse, but this isn’t something straight blokes generally _do_.”

“Yes, very self-sacrificing. The Work thanks you.”

“Don’t even pretend this is for The Work, you tit. You probably just wanted an excuse to watch me wank.”

John said it in the usual back-and-forth-bantering manner, but when he looked up he was astounded to see a faint hint of pink in Sherlock’s cheeks. Sherlock huffed and turned to dig out another bottle from the drawer, but not before John saw his Adam’s apple bob markedly.

 _Oh. OH._ The realization that Sherlock Holmes was embarrassed shouldn’t have been reassuring, but it was. Somehow it was nice to know that John wasn’t the only one out of his depth, here - or that he wasn’t the only one seeing this as not-quite-science. Sherlock handed him a bottle of lube without comment (the one labeled “C”, although Sherlock very pointedly didn’t look to see which one it was). John uncapped it and took a long sniff - _smells normal_ \- before sitting down on the bed and pouring some onto his fingers.

“So you want me to, um. Do I have to use the exact same technique as yesterday, or does it matter?”

Sherlock’s brows drew together. “You have more than one?”

“Well, yeah. I mean . . . you don’t?” John handed the bottle back to Sherlock. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Sherlock tipped out a little puddle into his own palm and all the air escaped John’s lungs at once. They were both doing this, then. It wasn’t just him being the subject of an experiment - Sherlock really was going to do this too. “I thought everyone liked a bit of variation,” he finished lamely.

Sherlock made a vague noise of dissent. “Illogical,” he declared. “Different arm and hand motions will have differing levels of effectiveness, so the most efficient thing to do is to experiment until you’ve found the most favorable technique for your own body’s reactions and then use it every time. Why would I want to engage in sub-optimal masturbation?”

“. . . Because sometimes change is good?” John leaned back against the headboard, his legs slightly spread in front of him, his good knee up at a comfortable angle. The position didn’t impede Sherlock from seeing exactly what he was about to be doing, but somehow the bent knee felt like a bit more privacy. “I’m never in the exact same mood twice, so I don’t see why I should be restricted to whatever’s the most ‘optimal’ in some grand general sense.”

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. “Show me,” he finally declared. “If you don’t think the presence or absence of your pants will make a discernible difference to the validity of the data?”

 _Berk._ “Fine, but if I’m doing this starkers, you are too. I refuse to feel like I’m under the microscope.”

The word _microscope_ seemed to derail Sherlock briefly. For a second he looked like he really was going to go downstairs and pull out his microscope - but then he started popping the buttons on his dress shirt, one at a time. Which seemed like the cue for John to strip off his jumper and button-down and actually fucking go through with this. It was awkward, since both of them already had lube all over their dominant hand, but the awkwardness helped. By the time Sherlock finally toed off his ridiculously expensive loafers and stepped out of his trousers and pants, John was done and nude and able to appreciate - _objectively,_ in a totally-not-gay way - how amazingly gorgeous his flatmate was.

Of course, no matter how much he tried to justify it, the noticeable hardening of his erection rather gave the game away. John half-expected some cutting comment, but Sherlock seemed to be wholly engrossed in staring at John’s cock. Which didn’t help the situation one bit, truth be told.

“So.” Sherlock’s voice came out half an octave higher than normal, which was extremely gratifying to hear. “Ah. We both . . . how do you envision we do this?”

 _Christ._ John had never really thought about it before, but the present situation was proving he definitely did have a bit of a exhibitionist streak. Because the more Sherlock stared, the more turned-on John felt. He reached down with his lubed hand and slicked up his cock with a bit more drama than usual (okay, a _lot_ more), but he was rewarded with a hitch in Sherlock’s breathing - and then the sight of Sherlock slowly and methodically doing the same. Sherlock’s fingers were just as elegant around his cock as John had imagined, long and nimble and deliberate and _fuck,_ this was supposed to be about him showing Sherlock something his giant brain didn’t already have archived, wasn’t it?

 _It’s more than that,_ the voice in the back of his head pointed out. _Sherlock doesn’t do this, doesn’t let himself be vulnerable for anyone else. Just for you._ It wasn’t really a startling realization - John had mulled the concept over countless times in the past - but this was the first time he thought about it in a sexual context.

And as soon as the idea appeared, John realized he didn’t give a damn whether this was awkward or not. Sherlock trusted him and obviously found him arousing and the more he could throw Sherlock off his pre-planned game, the better this would probably be.

 _In for a penny, in for a pound._ “I generally like to start slow,” John murmured, sliding his thumb and forefinger in a loose circle up and down over the head. “Ease into it. Sometimes when I’m already desperate to get off I’ll just go in for the kill, but it’s nice to enjoy the anticipation, don’t you think?”

And bingo - Sherlock silently licked his lips. Not so impartial after all. “I - um. I’m usually eager to get back to something else more important.”

“You don’t have anything more important going on now.”

It was half-question, half-statement, but Sherlock bit his lip and shook his head anyway. His pupils were already huge - and more telling than anything else, the half-second before his silent reply told John exactly how dazed Sherlock was feeling. It was a heady thing - _I did that to him. I, ordinary John Watson, have slowed down Sherlock’s ridiculously oversized brain._ John let the rest of his lubed palm rest on his shaft, just barely shifting up and down as his thumb and forefinger worked, but the promise of more to come was enough to bring him the rest of the way to hard in no time flat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock copy his movements.

And _bloody hell_ , if that wasn’t the hottest thing he had ever seen. Which was saying quite a bit. John gripped a bit tighter, catching his breath at the sensation, and heard (or maybe imagined) the low whine that escaped Sherlock’s lips.

“Right. Technique.” He let his palm drift down to his bollocks, smooth around the entirety of the shaft, smearing the slick lubricant everywhere. Whatever else Sherlock might have been, he was a damn good chemist - this variation “C” was just the right viscosity to slide smoothly without feeling unpleasantly wet. “When I’m using lube I like to make sure I’m ready for whatever I might happen to want to do,” he continued in a mostly-normal voice. “Sometimes I want to just hit the highlights, but sometimes I have a bit more time and it’s nice to spread things out. Tell me, Sherlock - do you like to touch your bollocks when you come, or do you just focus on your cock?”

Sherlock’s hand froze mid-stroke, as if he forgot John could watch him too. His gaze flicked to John’s face, his eyes wide, but then he seemed to suddenly recall himself to the fact that they were sorta-kinda-technically doing an “experiment” and thus he should probably act indifferent and arrogant like usual. “My data is irrelevant.”

“Not to me.” John cupped his bollocks gently, one at a time, prodding them with the exact amount of pressure he’d long ago found could bring him gently to the edge of _oh God, that’s good_ with making him too desperate. “I’ve found - through many years of thorough research - that I love how it feels when I play with them like this. Not every time - not my ‘optimal technique’ or whatnot - but for special occasions. Like when I want to take it slow, or I haven’t decided what else I want to do yet.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s voice sounded strangled, but he tentatively slid his hand down over his own bollocks. “That’s - that’s nice. Good. What else?”

“Now’s about when I really start imagining whatever I’m getting off to. And - well, I guess there’s no ‘always,’ but sometimes I like this.” John tightened his fist around his shaft, just barely on the right side of the pleasure/pain threshold, and nudged up and down with his hips. “I don’t know why it’s so much better if I keep my hand still and fuck my fist instead of vice versa, but it really is. How about you?”

Sherlock stared. There was no other word for it. “I haven’t,” he admitted quietly. “I always just lubricate my hand and twist a bit. It’s functional.”

“Not knocking it, then.” The combination of Sherlock’s attention and the lube and the delicious friction was starting to take its toll - John’s hips were no longer moving entirely voluntarily. The whole situation was awkward and weird and hot and it totally should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t because Sherlock was even more overwhelmed than John was. John no longer even pretended not to be watching as Sherlock’s fingers flew over his cock, up and down with a little slight twist John recognized from the previous night and a few strangled, breathy groans which were very definitely new. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he was leaning on the bedside table with his other hand and he was clearly very, very close.

“Do it,” John murmured. “Let me see you come.”

“Fuck.” Sherlock’s diction was incongruously perfect, even as his head fell forward and he came in several long spurts onto the edge of the bed. He didn’t break his rhythm until after the last shudder left him, and even then he kept his cock cupped gently in his palm as he dragged in a deep breath and drew his eyes back up to John. Full of what could only be described as a renewed intensity.

One look. One look from that frighteningly piercing gaze, deducing everything about John he’d been too lust-fogged to notice before. That plus a final snap of John’s hips was all it took to sever the final thread tethering John down and throw him arse over teakettle into what was probably the most prolonged orgasm of his life. He couldn’t hold in the groan as he came, and _came, and came._ It was glorious and terrifying all at once.

He blinked off the after-effects as quickly as he could, ready to throw back a retort to whatever cutting observation Sherlock chose to make at his expense, but Sherlock was just standing there looking stunned. Well, _stunned_ was probably an understatement - looked like he’d just been run over by a lorry, perhaps. He was still braced against the bedside table, but all he seemed able to do was swallow and blink.

“Hey.” John grabbed a dry corner of the sheet to clean himself up ( _going to have to throw them in the laundry again anyway_ ) and cleared his throat. “So.”

Sherlock sucked in a tiny breath and straightened. “So.”

“Was the experiment a success?”

“The - _oh._ ” Sherlock hastily wiped his messy hand on the closer of John’s pillows ( _Sherlock, really?_ ) and opened the bedside drawer. “Need to - to record data.”

“Of course.” John dabbed ineffectively at the lube which was now covering his cock, bollocks, the lower part of his stomach, and a fair portion of his sheet. “Um - Sherlock? What exactly did you put in this stuff? Because under ‘ease of cleanup’ I’m giving it a 1. It’s not coming off.”


	3. Chapter 3

The alarm on Sherlock’s phone went off at precisely 7:42 the next evening. John was expecting it this time, so the noise didn’t startle him, but he did jump when Sherlock grabbed his hand and tugged him out of his armchair.

“Upstairs, John! Not a moment to lose!”

John stumbled along behind, surprised but not unwilling. “Sherlock - you do realize we’re not on a timer, right?”

“We need to replicate as many of the variables as possible. I stepped into your room at 7:42 the day before yesterday and we got upstairs at 7:43 last night. Timing is _important._ ”

“It’s not like this is a particularly scientific experiment to start with.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him, then, as they reached the top of the staircase. Still holding hands. “Why else would I be doing this?” he asked, eyes artificially wide with feigned innocence.

 _Yeah, not buying that bullshit right now._ John was tempted to call him on it, to point out how this was clearly just a pretext to get him naked, but a slightly more rational part of his brain pointed out that if he brought it up - if he actually said the words out loud - he’d have to acknowledge that he _knew and was going through with this anyway_. That something about seeing Sherlock go totally offline like that was incredibly sexy. And that perhaps this whole thing wasn’t quite as out-of-the-blue as he’d originally told himself.

John went to sit on his bed, instead, and pulled off his jumper. By the time he got out of his button-down, he was able to watch out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock shucked his dressing gown and t-shirt. John hesitated with his hand over his flies, but Sherlock was smoothly kicking off his pajama trousers and his pants and then it didn’t feel awkward at all to get silently naked alongside him.

“Which bottle this time?”

Sherlock opened the drawer and handed him both. “Defeats the purpose if you tell me which we’re using - just pick one.”

John put one back without looking at the labels. He popped the cap of the one he was still holding and then - without really thinking about it - reached for Sherlock’s hand and held it still as he deposited a dollop of lube in his palm. And then froze.

Sherlock’s whole body went immobile. They both stared for a long moment at where Sherlock’s hand was cupped palm-side-up in John’s. The signals from John’s skin belatedly made their way to his brain - the warmth of the contact, the texture of Sherlock’s knuckles against his palm, the way that Sherlock’s fingers were trembling just the tiniest bit. John swallowed and snatched his hand away, quickly dispensing a dollop for himself too.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s - it’s okay,” Sherlock replied quietly. “Just surprised me.”

“Ah.”

“So.” Sherlock bit his lip, suddenly hesitating. “We should . . .”

“Me on the bed like before and you standing right there?”

“Yeah, that’s - that’s good.” Sherlock shuffled sideways a few inches, lining his feet up perfectly with where he’d been the night before. (Because of course he remembered everything down to the millimeter, the git. Although the fact that John noticed it meant he must have stored those details away as well. He tried not to think about that too hard - not with Sherlock there and naked and gorgeous and _holy crap I’m actually doing this again_.)

“You want me to just . . .” John gestured down at his cock, which was already half erect even though they hadn’t actually done anything yet. So was Sherlock’s, though, which made him feel slightly better. “We each do whatever we want to? Or is there some method to this methodology tonight?”

“I suppose we could . . .” Sherlock trailed off, eyes locked on John’s slowly lengthening erection. Which really wasn’t helping matters. “I suppose . . .” he began again.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock jumped a bit. “Sorry,” he said instantly. “Lost my train of thought.”

 _Good lord - he actually apologized. To me._ Not that he’d needed to - obviously his attention wasn’t hurting John’s libido one bit - but it was a sign Sherlock already wasn’t quite as together as he usually tried to be. And to apologize for _losing focus while staring at John’s cock_ \- there was no higher compliment. John cleared his throat. “It’s okay.”

“Is it?” Sherlock looked up, then, and the vulnerability in his gaze nearly ripped John in two. “This is usually the point you would be telling me the whole situation is Not Good and I lack normal human boundaries.”

“That point would have been forty-eight hours ago,” John corrected. “And I did tell you it was a bit not good. And still, here we are.”

Sherlock swallowed hard and his shoulders sank a little. “Should . . . do you want me to go?”

 _No_. The answer inside John’s head was immediate. He wanted Sherlock here beside him as he wanked, awkward and inference-prone as it was. Although . . .

John shuffled a bit further up on the bed, propping his shoulders against the headboard. “I want you to touch yourself for me,” he pronounced.

Sherlock swallowed again, his eyes wide. _Not sure of me either._ He bit his lip - probably didn’t even realize he was doing it - but then his right hand slowly stole down and encircled his cock. John couldn’t look away.

“Start slowly.” John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s hand, not trusting himself to look up and see Sherlock’s face. This was something new and different between them, and even seeing a tiny hint of disgust in Sherlock’s expression would ruin it. “Get the lube all over your cock, nice and wet, and then fuck your fist as slowly as you can stand it.”

“John,” Sherlock gulped, but his hand started to move exactly how John had commanded. “Are you - you’ll do this too?”

“How do you want me to do it?”

_“John.”_

John did look up, then, to see Sherlock’s chest rising and falling rapidly, his nipples already pebbled with arousal. The way Sherlock was staring at him like he was the most amazing thing in the entire world.

“I’m following your orders tonight,” John said simply. “And I want you to follow mine. If we’re going to do this, we might as well learn something, no?”

“I . . .” Sherlock’s voice trailed off into silence.

“So tell me what to do.” John closed his fist and opened it again, smearing the lube around his palm, but he kept his hand hovering in the air over his stomach until Sherlock shuddered (visible even out of the corner of John’s eye) and cleared his throat.

“Start by - start with just the tip. Twist your palm back and forth over it, get the lube warm. Then slide your hand down, as tight as you can stand it. Pretend you’re fucking into - into someone.”

“God, yeah, I can do that.” The lube was already warmed from sitting in his hand for so long, but John daubed it on the very tip of his cock and then smeared it around the whole head with his palm before closing his hand into a fist and slowly pushing up into it. The entire sum of his practical experience with penetration had been vaginas - attached to a wide variety of women over the years - but right now the only thing he could visualize was Sherlock. Naked and aroused (and oh, that wasn’t hard to picture, not with Sherlock standing right there slowly fondling himself), but in John’s mind Sherlock was flung face-down on the mattress with his arse in the air and John was trying to take in the acres of smooth, pale skin on Sherlock’s back as he gradually pressed himself into Sherlock’s greedy arsehole. “So tight,” he said aloud. “Fuck, that’s fantastic.” A glance up at Sherlock’s cock showed it to be entirely at attention and absolutely glistening with lube. John wanted to see more.

“Cup your bollocks with your other hand,” he commanded. “Not tight, just enough to lift them up and feel their weight. Let the heat of your hands sink into your skin, like it’s someone else touching you. Imagine that they’re still considering whether you’re worth the effort - they’re making up their mind as they stroke you gently. Get that image in your bloody mind palace.”

Sherlock was already palming his bollocks and tracing his thumb down between them, up the base of his cock as far as it could reach and then back down again. He didn’t speed up the tempo with his other hand by even a fraction, but John could tell from the lines of his body that he wanted to. Was desperate for something more, firmer, harder. John found he rather liked making Sherlock wait.

“Use your pelvic muscles now, John,” Sherlock rumbled in a low voice. _God, he’s so turned on._ “Press on your perineum with your right index finger as you fuck your left hand, and use your hips the way you like so much. Feel how the pressure changes as you change the angle of your thrusts, so that the discomfort from that one fingertip is the only thing stopping you from pushing any further. Keep it slow, though.”

John didn’t even want to know how Sherlock had deduced that a little hint of pain was such a huge turn-on for him, but it didn’t matter - that single point of pressure was fucking perfect. He flexed his hips as far as he could while keeping his hands steady, right up until his left hand was all the way at the base of his cock and his right fingertip was digging in hard enough to almost bring tears to his eyes. He dragged in a breath and did it again, all slow, deliberate movements. Controlled. Just as Sherlock was doing beside him.

“Harder now,” he murmured to Sherlock. His voice came out so quiet it barely carried over their combined heavy breathing, which was the only other sound in the room besides the occasional wet smack of lube and wanking. “Squeeze your bollocks, just enough to feel good, and tighten your fist. Hips and hands both - it’s time. You _are_ going to be getting off whether you want to or not - no use trying to fight it.”

 _“John.”_ Sherlock moaned and rocked his hips forward, nearly losing his balance since both his hands were occupied and he couldn’t steady himself against the nightstand. He caught himself before he toppled over, though, and repeated the motion. John kept wanking mechanically, but he couldn’t help but _stare_ \- Sherlock’s muscles were pure art as he curved and flexed his spine. There was no question Sherlock was underweight - John could have counted his ribs if he’d still been able to recall what order numbers were supposed to come in - but his musculature was an ode to The Work. Flat pectorals, defined thighs, and a lean, taut stomach, mostly devoid of hair but with a faintly darkening trail leading down to where he was tugging on his cock with increasingly desperate strokes.

“Fuck,” John whispered. Never had anything looked so beautiful as Sherlock did in that moment. Temptation incarnate. He had his head thrown back and there was a tiny bead of blood gathering on his lower lip from where he had bitten himself and hadn’t noticed. He started to lose his rhythm, his movements growing jerky, until he finally let out a soul-wrenching groan and seized up and _holy fuck_ he was absolutely stripped bare in that moment for John to see, more so than yesterday, more even than in that first instant at the pool when he’d seen John wrapped in semtex and had nearly given them both away with the pain in his eyes. Sherlock shuddered and came into his palm and then sagged shakily against the edge of the bed.

“Fuck,” Sherlock echoed.

John couldn’t look away. Sherlock’s head was practically right next to his own, the dark curls quivering as Sherlock fought to recapture his breath. It wouldn’t take much at all to just lean over and suck a dark bruise onto that pale neck, to bite down and make Sherlock cry out again as his brain was immediately overwhelmed with sensation a second time, so close on the heels of the first. John was barely conscious of his hand flying over his cock as he stared at Sherlock’s neck, practically salivating-

“Do it,” Sherlock breathed.

John’s eyes flew up to lock with his flatmate’s, which were startlingly clear and intense for so soon after coming.

“You’re staring at my neck,” Sherlock murmured. “You want to mark me.” He tilted his head to the side, baring a long column of pale skin, not taking his gaze off John’s face. “Go ahead - I want you to.”

 _“Fuck.”_ John nearly doubled over as he came, white streaks spattering his stomach and chest. Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, didn’t turn to see, but John would have bet his meager life savings that Sherlock was memorizing every minute detail of his facial expression during his orgasm. John flopped back against the mattress, panting, too tired to object.

Sherlock stared a moment longer, then suddenly seemed to recall himself with a noticeable amount of hesitation. He wiped his slick hand off (on the edge of the fitted sheet this time where John wouldn’t have to touch it, thank goodness) and looked down and away.

“John, would it be okay if - could I -”

 _Could I lie in bed with you for a minute?_ John didn’t have to be a genius to deduce the rest of Sherlock’s sentence. He wordlessly shifted over to the side, making space next to him. Sherlock lay down awkwardly, flat on his back, their shoulders only a few inches apart from each other. They lay there like that for a while, just breathing. It felt like there was so much to say, but neither of them were brave enough to say it.

“You’ll want data,” John finally said to the air above them. “Ratings.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Ah. Yes.”

“I liked that one, didn’t you? Which one was it?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and wriggled his hips deeper into the mattress for a moment.

And a grin began to form on John’s face. “You weren’t paying attention, were you? Come on, there were only two choices left - you couldn’t tell which one we used?”

“I’m not supposed to know,” Sherlock snapped back, although there was only the fraction of his usual heat when he was insulting John. “My mind was . . . busy.”

And that was probably the new single biggest compliment John had ever received.


	4. Chapter 4

John escaped upstairs at 7:40 the next evening before Sherlock’s alarm could go off. Sherlock looked at him strangely, but didn’t follow until a full two minutes later (as John had known he would). The head start meant John had time to prepare.

It also meant Sherlock stopped cold in the doorway when he saw John was already reclined on the bed, nude and stroking himself lazily. Sherlock’s expression was a gorgeous combination of confusion and _longing_ and John vowed to remember that look for the rest of his life.

“You’re still dressed,” John commented quietly. “Thought we were on a schedule?”

Sherlock dragged in a long breath and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wasn’t moving yet, though, so John deliberately rolled his hips a bit - showing off more than anything - and tilted his head toward the final bottle on the bedside table.

“Will you strip and then pour some out for me?”

Sherlock blinked twice, as if waking from a trance, but he mechanically started divesting himself of his clothes. The navy suit, today, which John was not at all unhappy about - Sherlock with his dress shirt unbuttoned and his braces hanging loose at his sides was a sight John was perfectly happy to lock away forever. He fleetingly wished he had a mind palace, too, so he could treasure it and take it out to look at whenever he wanted to. All too soon Sherlock was stepping out of his trousers and pants and then he was nude and clearly a bit self-conscious. Not that he had any reason to be. John kept his own face carefully neutral, not letting his gaze linger overly-long on Sherlock’s thickening cock, but something told him Sherlock could read him anyway. _Still, though . . ._

“Last bottle,” Sherlock said unnecessarily.

“Mmmm.”

John waited until Sherlock was back in position next to the bed, reaching for the lube, before he moved. All those years of combat training in the army weren’t for nothing - Sherlock barely had time to gasp before John had their positions swapped, Sherlock the one on his back with his shoulders propped against the headboard and John the one looming over him. Literally _looming_ \- he was straddling Sherlock’s waist, the insides of his thighs not quite touching Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and the pupils so dark John could hardly see any iris. It was the sexiest thing John had ever seen - which was apparently a running total more than a single achievement, because whatever might have held that position before had been usurped in the last few days by a whole series of images of Sherlock. John felt most of the rest of his _“not gay”_ objection melt away, and he was only mildly surprised to realize he truly didn’t care. Not with Sherlock practically shivering beneath him. Waiting.

“You always say you never do anything you don’t want to,” John murmured, his voice already husky. _God, he looks amazing._ “And I’ve been doing some thinking.”

Sherlock swallowed and failed in his struggle to recapture something of a neutral expression. “Oh?” he asked, his voice squeaking upward.

“Mmmmm.” John let his torso drop lower, so he was on his hands and knees and hovering mere inches from Sherlock’s face. Caging him. Still not actually touching. “You’re not the only one who can observe, you know. And I realized - _you like it when I make you want things.”_

_“John . . .”_

And then John let himself fall that last, vital bit, so he was pressing Sherlock down into the mattress with his own naked body and he could finally give him the thorough snog he deserved. The kind of kiss that usually made John’s partners’ toes curl in their high heels and led to them making all sorts of rash and lust-filled decisions, like letting John take them home and shag them boneless.

Kissing Sherlock was worlds apart from any of those experiences, though. Sherlock kissed back with an aching desperation which had nothing to do with the hard length of his erection pressing against John’s groin and everything to do with surrender - a clear _need_ for John to take care of them both, to show the way. John angled his head, licked deeper into Sherlock’s mouth, and demonstrated _exactly_ what went into a fantastic kiss. Sherlock was usually a good learner.

And it did take a little bit, but eventually Sherlock’s brain must have caught up because he started responding with more than just moans and passive whimpers. John could practically _feel_ him analyzing the angles and the movement of their tongues and lips and when Sherlock started kissing back, actually _actively_ kissing back, it was John who moaned.

“Sherlock.”

“God, yes.” Sherlock lifted his head to chase John’s as he drew back, recapturing John’s mouth once more. He settled into a series of light almost-nips, exploring John’s lips. “Show me, John.” A hint of tongue again. “Teach me. _I want you._ ”

“Lube,” John murmured.

Sherlock flailed wildly to the side, still unwilling to turn his head to look, and practically flung the bottle at John’s hand. John uncapped it without looking and ended up with way more on his palm than he intended, but it was okay because when he reached down to smear it between them, Sherlock groaned and flung his head backwards to crack against the headboard with an audible _thunk._

“Fuck, John,” Sherlock groaned.

“Not with homemade lube,” John countered, hips already rolling in small circles. “Not today, at least. I want to get you off just like this - trapped beneath me, unable to hide. I want to see every nuance of expression on your face as you come, every bloody shiver and twitch. Move, Sherlock - rub yourself off against me. Make me feel it.”

Sherlock whimpered - actually bloody _whimpered_ \- but he nudged upward sharply against John. The movement slid their cocks together, the lubricant easing the friction and replacing it with a bone-meltingly good spark which brought goosebumps out all over John’s body.

“God - _again._ ”

Sherlock did it again, and again, and then they were frotting frantically and Sherlock was making needy little noises which he tried desperately to bury in John’s throat but which kept escaping anyway. John had his head thrown back and his eyes closed - looking at Sherlock’s face like this would be too much. Sod seeing every nuance of Sherlock’s expression - if John looked down and saw those wide pupils below him, he’d blow his load pretty much instantaneously. Not that Sherlock was much help in that department - he was practically whimpering, now, with how lost he was in the sensations of John’s body against his own. He was intoxicating and John wanted nothing more than to feel him shatter.

“Come for me, Sherlock,” he murmured into Sherlock’s ear. “Let me feel you when you come.”

“Mark me,” Sherlock breathed back. “Like you wanted to yesterday. Make me feel it for _days_.”

He didn’t need to ask twice - the moment the words were past Sherlock’s lips, John opened his eyes to orient himself and then latched onto the long, pale column of neck mere inches from his mouth. It wasn’t a kiss as much as an attack, sharp and sudden, and Sherlock jolted as if touched by a live wire. He arched and cried out and Christ, John could _feel_ him shaking apart, his cock pulsing against John’s own. Three short thrusts later and John was coming, too, his come mingling with Sherlock’s between them and sticking their stomachs together. He made to roll off - his arms felt too shaky to hold him up anymore - but Sherlock encircled him in a tight hug and wouldn’t let go.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered into John’s shoulder. “That was - thank you.”

“Absolutely fucking brilliant,” John finished for him, and pressed a much gentler kiss over where Sherlock’s trapezius was already purpling. “Can we just . . . stay here?”

“You’ll get cold.”

“Then we’ll grab the sodding blanket.”

They didn’t. When John woke up the next morning, though, his blanket was tucked gently up to his chin and Sherlock was wrapped like an octopus around him. And it was all fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all may have noticed that this now has five chapters. That's because I couldn't stand to not write the epilogue I've had bouncing around in my head.


	5. Epilogue

“What’s this?”

Sherlock’s smile was a bit unsettling. “I refined the formula.”

“The . . .” John tilted the test tube dubiously. The viscous liquid inside barely moved. “Seriously?”

“Smell it, John!”

He brought it up to his nose and sniffed. “Smells like tea.”

“ _Tastes_ like tea.” Sherlock’s grin was nearly manic now. “Hardly a difficult deduction to know you like the taste - you certainly drink enough of it.”

“And you want me to . . . right.” John took another, longer inhale - the lube _did_ smell like tea, albeit with a bit of a chemical tang. Not bad, actually, and actually rather touching in a Sherlock-y way. Although _what,_ exactly, Sherlock expected him to be tasting . . . John let his gaze rove over Sherlock’s body, not bothering to hide his perusal. It had the predicted effect on Sherlock’s cock, as it turned out, which was not at all hidden behind those thin pajama trousers.

Sherlock bit his lip in a blatantly manipulative attempt to sway John’s decision. “So?”

 _So._ John put down his book and stood. “I guess I’m always trying to get you to eat more, aren’t I?”


End file.
